


The Secluded Station

by L_A_Red94



Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Although he sure is handsome..., And Broken Toasters, Civil War, Gen, Gruesome Guardians, Miserable Orphans, That's Not Count Olaf!, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Ventriloquists Fighting Discrimination, Vocational Friends of Dermatology, You Have Been Warned, vfd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_A_Red94/pseuds/L_A_Red94
Summary: Ladies and gentlemen, the door did not open to reveal a member of the Sheriff's secret police, wearing their seasonal violet overcoats and wielding ceremonial bronze sceptres. Nor indeed did I find myself faced with the ragged claws and heavy, rattled breathing of a Stewardess, on her monthly patrol of the town. What faced me was a good deal stranger.Before me, in a dark suit and a dark tie and a dark hat, stood what may be most accurately described as a man. And before him, in an assortment of dark clothing, none of which included a suit or a tie or a hat, stood three children._____________________________Ventriloquists roam the streets, dermatologists are searching for a new exhibition, and Cecil Palmer opens his door one evening to find three mysterious orphans.Welcome... To Night Vale!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a blast to write. I've tried to make it as much like a Night Vale episode as possible, so let me know how I did. Part 2 will  
> Hopefully be up in the next few days.

Oranges and Lemons, sing the bells of St. Clement's.  
You owe me five farthings, sing the bells of St. Martins.  
No, seriously. Where's my money? You think I'm kidding? What about this knife? Do you think this knife is kidding? Where. Is. My. Money?

Welcome... To Night Vale.

The Night Vale chapter of Ventriloquists Fighting Discrimination have staged a protest outside of the town hall, following a controversial ruling from the city council stating that any legal testimony, verbal contract or fast food order, must be spoken in person, using one's own mouth. The decision, they said, at midnight last Tuesday, speaking in unison from their position atop the roof of the town hall, was made in order to cut down on the recent plague of vocal hijacking which has given us all so much trouble lately. Advocates for Ventriloquists Fighting Discrimination argue that the ruling unfairly prejudices against those who possess the voices of others for their own, often innocent purposes. While the Ventriloquist Anti-Defamation League has refused to comment, the protest has the support of The Silent Puppeteers, in spite of the two groups' well documented blood feud.

In other news, child-sized wooden dolls have begun to appear in homes and businesses across Night Vale. While their origins and intentions are as yet completely unknown, the dolls are presumed to be harmless. And really, who are we to make rash snap decisions about the doubtless complex inner lives and motivations of others, simply because they appear in our offices and kitchens and community radio break rooms with blank, staring eyes and no visible indicator of how they got there? To those so quick to dismiss these dolls as obviously nefarious and dangerous, I say 'Shame on you, Steve Carlsberg!'

More on this story as it develops.

Listeners, something very peculiar indeed happened to me last night, as I was getting ready for bed. I had just finished whispering the day's telepathic mind list into my refrigerator and was about to brush my teeth when four clear knocks sounded from my front door. Now I knew that Carlos was spending the night with his team of scientists studying the mysterious wailing tree that appeared outside of Big Rico's Pizza Emporium and Wheat By-Product Speakeasy, and so I was at a complete loss as to who it could be.

Defensively seizing ahold of a large cast iron statue of legendary actor, Steve Martin, I slowly, cautiously, approached the door and slowly... cautiously... answered... it...

Ladies and gentlemen, the door did not open to reveal a member of the Sheriff's secret police, wearing their seasonal violet overcoats and wielding a bronze sceptre. Nor indeed did I find myself faced with the ragged claws and heavy, rattled breathing of a Stewardess, on her monthly patrol of the town. What faced me was a good deal stranger.

Before me, in a dark suit and a dark tie and a dark hat, stood what may be most accurately described as a man. And before him, in an assortment of dark clothing, none of which included a suit or a tie or a hat, stood three children.

"Mr Palmer?" He phrased it like a question, although those eyes told me that he knew me as an old friend.

"Most recently," I answered, although in truth it has been many weeks since I was last biologically verified at Night Vale Biometric Testing and F.U.N. Centre.

"I am Mr Poe," spoke the figure. "We spoke on the phone."

"Yes..." I realised. That voice, that familiar, unknowable voice. Memories washes through me like bright colours amid myriad smoke and rushing, black water. "The phone..."

The memory is a fragment, no more. A phone call from long ago, from before Community Radio, and PTA meetings, and electricity, and anniversary dinners.

"Indeed," said the one named Poe. "Here are the orphans we discussed." He nodded to the three silent children and I saw... no, I felt, that this was a wise man. "Of course, their last situation ended very poorly, so doubtless they'll be a little quiet at first. It isn't their fault, I'm sure, about all the deaths."

"Of course," I breathed, lowering my weapon from its position high above my head. "Please come in."

"I cannot," he said, a touch of melancholy... no... nostalgia, in his simple words. The next words he spoke to me will stay with me until I am a young man no more. Then, with a wonderfully simple, infinitely complex smile, he tipped his dark hat and left.

As I showed the children into my home, and into my life, I whispered those words beneath my breath.

Banking Hours.

And now, a civic announcement. Tomorrow marks the official opening of the Vocational Friends of Dermatology's annual exhibition. Don't forget to book your place now, so that the whole family can enjoy! As always, the choice of displays will be made by random sampling of City Council files, and the lucky winners will be notified tonight by six evenly spaced taps against their bedroom window. Sounds like fun!

The Night Vale chapter of Ventriloquists Fighting Discrimination have begun their march of protest outside of town hall. The group's spokesperson, Serena Maymar, told Night Vale Community Radio through the means of the mysterious wooden doll who appeared this morning in our break room that the group will not rest until the city council rescinds its decision to outlaw the use of possession as a means of forming binding legal documents, testifying in a court of law, or ordering fast food. The recent plague of vocal theft, she claims, have been grossly exaggerated in order to create an atmosphere of fear and mistrust regarding the ventriloquist community.

And you know what? I, for one, agree. This newest policy of the notoriously anti-possession city council is nothing more than a thinly veiled move to silence voices which happen to resonate from mouths other than their owner's. Stand up for our ventriloquist siblings, Night Vale! Stand up for yourselves! I've sent intern Ryan along to keep us posted on any updates, but I urge you to go along and join in the protest against this injustice.

Now, back to the story of the three mysterious orphans brought to me late yesterday evening. I have to say, Night Vale, that they are delightful children. The oldest child, Violet, is a very inventive girl. For example, when my toaster began to let out a deafeningly loud, high pitched howl early this morning, an old foible that I no longer even notice, all she needed was a screwdriver, some pliers and a handful of bracken, and she had that old thing working like it had just been bought.

Then there's a boy, Klaus, who is twelve years old and wears large, round glasses that make him look intelligent. He is intelligent. When my pet salamander, a gift from my wonderful boyfriend, Carlos, refused to leave her room yet again this morning, Klaus told me that he had read all about depression in his parents' old library. While it hardly seems responsible to condone that sort of risk taking, I confess it made my day much brighter when Klaus was able to persuade Winifred into a daily exercise routine to begin her day.

And lastly there's young Sunny. While not quite at the age in which most humans learn to communicate with real words, Sunny is an absolute delight. We share the precise same taste in music, both enjoy gourmet cooking, and when Carlos returned this morning battling dense grey vines which attempted to choke him to death, all it took was a few bites of her four sharp teeth to free him. I confess that I am very eager for our poker rematch this evening, listeners. Very eager indeed.

Three fine young children who I am sure will have comfortable, fortunate lives right here in Night Vale.

Perhaps we will find out if I am correct... after the weather.

X

See the people? 

On this road the people drive. They move in vehicles of bronze and plastic and carbon and glass and dust.

See the people?

On this road, a woman hands her partner a plain, styrofoam cup. Inside the cup is coffee. It's too hot to drink, so her partner clutches it in stiff hands and looks out at the fading sunset. Neither speaks. Neither needs to.

See the people?

In one car, a radio plays static. That noise, that harsh white noise, permeates the vehicle and the driver knows the truth. That this static played at the conception of the universe, before space and time merged to form an endless and merciless pit for fragile souls to live and breath and die in. Long after our world had fallen into its own hot sun, and long after that sun has been consumed by its own dying fires, that static will play, and play, and play.

See the people?

This has been traffic.

Ladies and gentlemen and anthropomorphised elements, we have an update on the demonstration of the Ventriloquists Fighting Discrimination outside of town hall. What began as a peaceful community event, designed to facilitate hope and understanding within our community has descended into scenes of violence. I cannot urge you strongly enough: Do not go down there!

Negotiations over the new anti-possession legislation issued by the city council have apparently broken down. According to the child-sized wooden doll who left the break room and materialised right beside me in the recording studio some minutes ago, appeasement will no longer satisfy the society. 

"Your corrupt officials have proven once and for all that they cannot be trusted," it said in a whispery voice both ancient and eldritch, and also small and vulnerable. "You are ruled by a puppet. A puppet! Yet who should control a puppet?"

At this I must tell you that I protested. The mayor of Night Vale, as some of you may be aware, is my former intern and current friend, Dana Cardinal. However, it appears that the magic which allows the Ventriloquists to speak through a puppet does not extend to hearing what others say to them, for this doll continued its manifesto as though all else were silent. The society will not stand down, it says on a slow repeat, in unison with every other puppet in the city, until the city council is disbanded and replaced with members of Ventriloquists Fighting Discrimination.

At this announcement, the Ventriloquist Anti-Defamation League broke off into a low, angry whistling. The two groups broke out into open battle on the streets, sending their puppets to attack each other. The Silent Puppeteers refused to comment, but were seen nearby rubbing their hands together and chuckling darkly beneath their breaths as puppets turned in the press brandishing tiny wooden knives. Readers, I must speculate that being stabbed to death with such small, blunted instruments must be extremely slow and agonising, so do be careful.

Oh, that reminds me. To the family of Intern Ryan, we are deeply sorry for the loss of a fine and brave young man, lost in the line of duty for his local community radio station.

And so once again ends a day in Night Vale. A day of bloodshed, and Ventriloquy, and mysterious orphans with pleasant facial features and table manners. A day in which brother fights silent brother in the streets, and bloodied splinters yet again litter our roads. 

But what is war if not a reminder or peace? What is fear if not a reminder of hope? I say to you listeners that Night Vale's apparent civil war will not destroy this town, but unite it again stronger than ever before. And so I leave you with...

Who are you? Listeners, a strange man has just walked into the recording studio. He is wearing casual jeans and a jersey, extremely large an entirely unnecessary fake glasses, and a profusion of bandages around one ankle. He is clearly a man in his late fifties, but his name tag reads "Intern Muntry, 18."

Listeners, I have never seen this man before in my life, and am certain we haven't had time to advertise for Intern vacancies after Intern Ryan's gruesome death not ten minutes ago, and yet... and yet...

He does have an official radio station name tag.

And so, from both myself and our new intern, Muntry, I say:

Good Night, Night Vale.

Good Night.


	2. Chapter 2

Seem the innocent flower,  
But be the homicidal, fortune-hunting lunatic under it.

Welcome... To Night Vale

It's over. At long last, the violence, the blood shed, the deception... It's all over. 

Listeners, it's been a very unfortunate week for the Night Vale community, but at long last, all our villains have been unmasked, all our tyrants cast down, and all our brothers-in-law silenced. 

We have survived, Nightvale. We... Have... Survived...

Oh! Why, hello Count Ola-... Hello Intern Muntry. Thank you very much! 

Ladies and gentlemen, I must tell you that the past week's War of Silence may well have rattled my spirits, if not for the breathtaking competence of our latest station intern. The middle aged, homicidal fortune-hunter, currently disguised as an 18 year old college student in search of extra credit, really has been a boon to us at the station. Don't drink his coffee, though!

I actually do mean that, listeners. When I entered my booth this morning, I found a rolled up note from the city council, reading: "This is the root cause. This is our sorrow. The grounds of evil. Forgo this cursed beverage, and spread the word to your fellow homunculi. You have until tonight to comply." This is then signed with the usual bloodied paw mark from what I assume is some sort of desert cat. You know, I like to think that that little pun they worked in there was deliberate. Being a member of the city council must be a very demanding and stressful job-

Whoops!

Now see, listeners! That's what I'm talking about! I was just searching on my desk for a long, thin object with which to press the auto-reset on today's Acceptable Memories log, when Intern Muntry shot this very conveniently-shaped poisonous dart at my throat! Luckily for my, my oldest adopted child, Violet, was able to knock off his aim by suspending a lunch cart atop the doorway of this booth with a bundle of old wires and dropping it on him at the crucial moment, so I was not harmed by the object. 

See how well they're working together?

Thank you Violet! Thank you Count... I mean Intern Muntry! I need to go do the Community Calender, now! Help yourself to the vegan fine delicacies in the break room, okay?

Ladies and gentlemen, the following amendments have been made to this week's schedule.

Monday: Citizens will take in protest to the doors of the Moonlite All-Nite Diner to demand the resignation and permanent incarceration of any caught selling coffee.

Tuesday will happen earlier than we thought. Earlier than we prepared for.

Wednesday marks the last day of the Vocational Friends of Dermatology's annual exhibition, according to their spokesperson, a small, hunched figure, dressed in what appeared to be a long hooded cloak of indefinable, pinkish leather.

Thursday's dream-registration list has now been posted! You can see if you're on the list of licensed dreamers by simply falling asleep right now. Of course, if you're caught dreaming without a license, the sheriff's secret police have been authorised to resequence your metabolism! 

Friday has already passed. It knows you forgot, and it is very upset with you.

Saturday and Sunday have temporarily switched places. We'll let you know if the situation changes, but for now they're back to normal.

This has been: Community Calender.

Now, back to the main story, not of the news of the uneasy armistice between the Silent Puppeteers and their former librarian allies, but of the most important events in my life.   
I have to say, listeners, that parenting is an extremely rewarding occupation, but it's also a little exhausting. Just yesterday, I got a call from the school letting me know that Klaus, something of an anti-authoritarian daredevil, has been sneaking out of class to visit the library. Why a boy of his good sense wouldn't want to sit and recite the words to the old protective chant, Let It Snow, but rather sneak off to learn from books is quite beyond me. I'm a little unclear about discipline procedures. Ordinarily, I would ban him from wireless radio, lindy-hopping and other cool young after-school activities, but I can't help but feel like he knows what he's doing. Among other things, he didn't venture inside alone and unprotected, but had the sense to bring with him inveterate library survivor and young insurgent, Tamika Flynn, who waited outside the building in a stolen helicopter for a speedy getaway. I understand that Klaus was able to keep the librarians away by waving his copy of the Verified Functional Dictionary at them, and reciting his impressively advanced vocabulary list. 

Perhaps, then I should defer to his obviously good judgement and allow him these little acts of pre-teen rebellion? 

For her part, Violet gets on very well with Carlos. She enjoys inventing, and whenever she is deep in thought, can be seen tying her long hair back in a ribbon, presumably to keep electric follicles from making contact with her shoulders at such a vulnerable time. Carlos is teaching her about Science, and she seems to take to it very quickly.   
Sunny, as ever, is pithy, observant and charming. Why, just this morning, when my potentially murderous intern, Muntry, introduced me to a friend of his, Sunny pointed to the man and shouting "Gluma!", a word which I understood to mean: That's no radio technician! That's Count Olaf's hook-handed minion, who means to kill us all!

At first, I was inclined to scold her, for the loss of two hands is an unfortunate disability which all too often affects those in high-risk professions, such as bomb-removal experts, armed forces and Community Radio Sound Technicians. But soon enough, I saw that she was correct when the person in question was spotted attempting to leave a loose, charged wire dangling in a sink in the men's room. Of course, had I turned on the water, I would most certainly have been killed, but what struck me is that the death trap was set up in the least acoustically interesting spot in the room. A true sound technician would have been ashamed of themselves.

So you see, parenting is a truly rewarding experience, but I admit that in the last week or so I've gotten a lot less sleep. Adopting three mysterious orphans whose previous guardians have suffered a string of terrible fates may be a learning curve that every citizen undertakes at some point in their lives, but I wonder if I'm quite ready for this step. 

I'll bring you more on this story, as it develops.

If you cut a worm in half, the two pieces will become separate worms! If you cut a human in half, the two pieces will also become separate worms! Try cutting a tree in half, or an orange, or an antique dresser! If you cut any thing in half, it will become two separate worms!

This has been children's fun fact science corner.

Back to the story of the three children who-

Oh! Argh! I... Listeners...

I... Something... has happened... I appear to be bleeding...? Oh! I... have to run! Have to, Arghh! There is a knife, dipped in some kind of... poison... Oh lord! I have to leave! Right now! Perhaps... I can shimmy out... the break room... window! Don't fear... Listeners...

I will return... I will return!

After... the weather...

x

With knowledge, comes power.

With power, comes freedom.

With freedom, comes knowledge.

But who comes when the night air is inked out by a veil so thick, that even your memories grow dark, grow thin, fade...?

Who comes to the home you share with faces you have never even seen?

Who has the knowledge? Who has the freedom? Who has the power?

Uber.

Listeners. Oh, listeners. After all this time, it seems I have been betrayed. My good friend and loyal radio intern, a middle-aged man named Count Olaf who has been single-mindedly stalking my three young adoptees in search of their vast fortune, is secretly an attempted murderer who is attempting to kill me in order to secure my three adoptees' vast fortune! Just earlier, as I was recording this very broadcast, somehow the villain was able to take control of the apparently inanimate child-sized wooden puppet which materialised last week in the station. After the rains of blood had ceased to fall, and the Silent Puppeteers had ceased to smile over the bloodied carcasses of their sworn enemies in the streets, we had all assumed that the puppets had become harmless. The puppet in my recording studio, however, was manoeuvred by the count by means of several long strings, to stab me in an attempt to end my life!

Fortunately for me, Olaf overlooked two crucial facts. Firstly, he didn't realise that the presence of blood around recording equipment was outlawed months ago in city by laws.   
Seeing the presence of my plasma so close to the equipment, the Sheriff's Secret Police swiftly suspended my bleeding license, and instituted a small fine, thus ironically saving my life.

Secondly, the villain did not realise that my youngest adopted child, Sunny, was in this very premises, and was able to quickly bite through the marionette's strings, leaving it crumpled and harmless on the ground.

All that remained was for Violet to improvise some bandages for me using our surprisingly absorbent studio wall paper, and for Klaus to confront the villain with an old newspaper he found in the library. Although he could get into serious trouble if he were found holding paper, he was able to confirm that Count Olaf was banished from Night Vale over a century ago, following a performance of The Marvellous Marriage so bad that the spectators began to tear apart the community theatre and fling debris and pieces of plush velvet cushions at the stage. Olaf and his troupe were banished henceforth to the desert wastes, to return upon pain of certain death.

Unfortunately, once confronted with this information, Olaf's remarkably incompetent sound technician tripped the building's light switches to go out, and its microphones to play a loud and unpleasant feedback. While we were all crouching low and covering our ears in agony, the villains were able to make their mistake.  
So the Baudelaire orphans are at last safe in Night Vale...

Oh?

A long, thin tentacle has appeared from station management to hand me a note. The first half of the note seems to have been written in strange, viscous blood, but the writer has clearly since become impatient with this remarkably inefficient writing method, and has copied over it in black pen. It reads... It reads...

Oh.

Dear Mr Palmer.

We have recently been made aware of your acquisition of three young orphans without the requisite paperwork. As you know... As you know, the position of Community Radio 

Host is a solemn vow to the community...

I see them now... listeners. Three young, hopeful orphans, their face pressed against the glass of this booth... Both optimistic and full of sorrowful... understanding.

They... they would have been happy here... Listeners. They would have been happy.

And so... once again I leave you... listeners... I leave with the knowledge that... Our lives are a little changed... a little brighter... from these... three... orphans.

Good Night, Night Vale...

Good... Night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Made it in the end! That was much harder to write than the first chapter? For reasons? But I got there in the end. Sorry about the sad (ish) ending, but I guess the clue was in the name? 
> 
> I'm considering writing this again, but from the Baudelaires's perspective. Like, Lemony Snicket style. Not sure how it will work out though? 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the feedback. You guys are amazing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Secluded Station](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825260) by [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds)




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